


Be Exactly Like We Were

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 13:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: “Who’s gonna bring you dinner when I’m in my own house, Jack?” Sam asks with a grin, dangling the bags of chicken parm and salad above Jack’s head where he’s sitting on the sofa.“I can get my own,” Jack snaps back, tugging on the bag for a second before Sam’s chuckling, ducking back out of reach.“Yeah, and mess with your routine?” Sam snorts, dropping a familiar blue-green bottle on Jack’s lap as he puts their dinner on the coffee table. “I’d like to see that.”





	Be Exactly Like We Were

**Author's Note:**

  * For [restitched (beingothrwrldly)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingothrwrldly/gifts).



> Because of [THIS article on Jacks routine](https://sports.yahoo.com/know-jack-eichel-star-behind-202416535.html)and a conversation with Sarah. That’s it. That’s why. Thanks as always to E for checking all the things and my Sweet Potato for the cheer squad.

Red, nice, shiny skin and a crisp sound when he bit into it. Insofar as to say, a decent apple. Jack tries not to judge each barn on their apples but… there was _something_ about the apples in LA that always seemed to be better than anywhere else. Well… maybe fresh picked apples from that family farm in Worcester, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to do that much, so. 

“How you like _them_ apples?” 

Jack just rolls his eyes and throws the core into a nearby bin, the soft thud of its landing just able to be heard over Beau’s laughter.

“Getting old, Beaulieu. Getting real old.” 

:::

The thing is... Jack may be many things. Good at hockey. Decent at Chel. Owner of far too many hair products that end up filling his bathroom cabinets until he just gives in and shaves his head not to have to deal with them all. He’s a good friend, a good brother, and this season? He’d like to think he’s pretty good at this whole captain thing. 

Most people are decent if given the opportunity, and Jack’s had a lot of that. Parents who went above and beyond when he showed an interest in hockey. Coaches that pushed him to better his skills. Trainers who worked his body to the brink and then some. He learned from the very beginnings of his life to listen well. To take in the “pain goes away, pride lasts forever” and “ninety percent of hockey is mental and the other half is physical” and a bunch of other quotes he’s heard since Mites—and work them into his life.

So, it’s not a stretch that Jack becomes a fan of routine. 

Over time, he works out what works best for him. That he needs something sort of light and sweet for breakfast on game day. How making sure his hydration is up with drinks that taste good enough that he won’t be sick of them after a while is important. As he gets older, plays more seriously, when the best times are for his body to rest and warm up. What meals will stick in his gut and give him energy for a long game. The ways to tape his stick and lace his skates that work best, that become like muscle memory and almost send him into a zen-like trance when no one’s asking him anything. 

(Which, again, eventually people give up on conversation when Jack’s sitting there in his stall.)

It’s not all a superstition or anything as crazy as Crosby and other players he’s heard about. It’s just… keeping things simple. He knows what works best for his body. Works best for his hockey. What gives him an edge or, at least, he hopes it will. Keeps his head in the game, leaving him nothing else to worry about.

Which is why he has a love/hate relationship with road games and the quality of apples. It’s only one thing, though, and he’s learned to deal with that in his last three seasons with the Sabres. As long as there’s at _least_ an apple available, then Jack’s fine with that.

It works. His routine. His home life. His professional life. The team he loves being a part of, has signed on to _be_ a part of for the next eight years. The city he’s made home (at least for the months he’s not back in MA). He’s done a pretty good job of this life he’s lead so far, and he’s comfortable with his lot.

Well, a shiny silver cup and a few ridiculously blinged up rings would be great… but with the moves the front office have hinted they’re making over the summer? Jack’s quietly confident that the hardware will come.

:::

Then Sam moves out.

:::

“I found a place,” Sam says one ordinary Tuesday afternoon in October, placing their chicken and vegetables from Chef’s on the counter. 

Jack backs out of the fridge, Pellegrinos in hand, bumping the door shut with his hip, a frown marring his brow as he makes his way over. “For what?”

Sam’s brushing past Jack, headed for the cutlery drawer as he answers. “To live, doofus. You’ll never guess where.”

Jack uncaps his bottle and one for Sam as he starts plating up, removing the mushrooms from Sam’s and adding them to his own plate, then reversing the move with the artichokes from his to Sam’s. 

“Where?” he asks, settling himself onto a stool, as Sam grinds salt and then pepper over both their plates.

“Four doors down, that place with the dead tree out front?” 

Jack nods, they’ve laughed about that tree over the past few months. Watching as the owners tried _everything_ from cutting it back, to turning the soil around it, to the day they saw a van with “Tree Medic” plastered on its side in their drive. It still leans to the left, leaves brown on one side and a pale yellowy-green on the other. Sad ugly twig of a thing.

“I saw the For Sale sign when we came home from Columbus, booked a tour, and put in an offer today. It doesn’t have the view of the water, but the park is just as good,” Sam continues as he cut into his chicken.

Jack doesn’t answer straight away, sucking down more Pellegrino than he probably should in one go. It’s not that he thought Sam would stay forever it’s just… now there’s an end date. Sort of.

“Guess you’ll have to figure out how to do your laundry on your own now, huh,” Sam says with a grin, bumping his foot against Jack’s ankle.

“I remember to flip it!” Jack grumbles, kicking Sam back in return. “That’s great, Samson. Really.” 

Sam grins around his fork, the apple of his cheeks pinking up. “Still have to settle but, it’ll be good, I think. Put down some roots and all.”

Jack hums in response. Understands why Sam has lived with him as long as he has, even after Jack bought this place. Why it took Sam so long to even move out of a hotel the first time he was called up for longer than ten games. They all get it’s a business and you want to prove to the team you’re worth keeping around, but until you can sign a contract that has a few years and few more dollar signs attached to it? Actually being serious about owning a home is a hard thing to decide on.

They talk about their upcoming game against Calgary, and Jack loads the dishwasher when they’re done, Sam heading upstairs to shower and nap. 

If Jack has to rub at his chest a few times where it aches when he’s winding down on the sofa, watching a rerun of _Friends,_ well then he probably missed a sliver of artichoke. It always gives him heartburn.

:::

They’re winning. They’re winning so damn much that Jack almost feels invincible. Nine straight games and the hockey gods seem to be finally— _finally_ —on their side. Playing with Skinny is incredible. It’s so much like the chemistry he had with Rodrigues back at BU, that for the first few games he had to blink and remind himself that it _wasn’t_ Evan crashing into him for a post-celly hug. 

It’s good. It’s _great,_ and Jack is gonna ride that wave until—because it’s hockey—it stops.

:::

Sam moves into his new place the Sunday after they get back from Detroit, where Sam got them the win in a shootout. Jack helps him move over the few bits and pieces he’d collected over the past year, brings out a six pack as they end the afternoon lying on the polished floor, surrounded by boxes, shooting the shit. Eventually they quiet, voices turning soft, eyes on the picture windows that look out on the park as the sky changes from blue to purple then black.

Monday, Jack offers to drive the forty minutes over the border to IKEA so he can help Sam choose (aka sit on) the sofa he wants. He bitches and whines about the traffic as they “cruise” the QEW to St Catharines. Jack offered to drive, he didn’t say he’d enjoy it. Sam plays decent tunes anyway, so the near hour it takes them to get there isn’t so bad. They wander for a bit, eat enough Swedish meatballs to make themselves almost sick before they even contemplate shopping. Sam’s mom made them a list of things to buy and had them preordered, ready to pick up. Which is helpful until Jack realizes he likes the soft throw rug that Sam has and that his pillows are flat so they go around on their own anyway. 

Tuesday, he convinces Sam to stay over because they’re playing the Sharks at home and Sam’s bed is being delivered that day. Jack has two other spare rooms apart from the one Sam was using, plus, they fly out in the morning for the Florida leg. It just makes sense.

:::

“Who’s gonna bring you dinner when I’m in my own house, Jack?” Sam asks with a grin, dangling the bags of chicken parm and salad above Jack’s head where he’s sitting on the sofa. 

“I can get my own,” Jack snaps back, tugging on the bag for a second before Sam’s chuckling, ducking back out of reach.

“Yeah, and mess with your routine?” Sam snorts, dropping a familiar blue-green bottle on Jack’s lap as he puts their dinner on the coffee table. “I’d like to see that.”

:::

They win 1:41 into overtime with Skinny banking in a sweet backhand from Rasmus. They go out for a few drinks afterward, but it was a hard game so it’s just after midnight that Jack finds himself squeezing into an Uber with Sam. They shush each other as they giggle and snort, Jack’s arm wrapped around Sam’s waist as they make their way up the drive. 

Sam ends up taking the key from Jack when he fumbles three times to get it in the lock. 

So maybe he had more than just a _few_ drinks. He’s young. He can sleep it off. They don’t fly out until the afternoon. 

Sam basically falls on top of Jack as they get the door open, sending them both sprawling to the floor. Jack has the wind knocked out of him with Sam’s none-too-light body resting entirely over his. 

“How are you so bony?” Sam asks, breath wet and hot, stinking of beer as it sweeps over Jack’s cheek. 

Jack blinks, tries to get his hands under himself to push up and get Sam off. “I think it’s more like you need to lay off those Clouds from Carriage’s that I know aren’t on your diet plan.” 

“I always get the blueberry ones so at least there’s fruit in mine,” Sam points out, poking at Jack’s side. “And I always bring you back a sticky bun, so I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about.” 

Sam rolls off, and Jack manages to get up to his knees. He at least gives Sam his hand to get up—even if he does pull it out of reach a few times just to be an ass. 

When he does get Sam off the ground, Jack almost loses his balance again. It’s Sam that comes to the rescue, arm sliding around Jack’s waist to hold him up. They’re close, Sam almost going cross-eyed as he stares at Jack, cackling, which sets Jack off, and then he’s got his hands on Sam’s shoulders, fingertips toying with the curls at the base of Sam’s neck. 

They feel nice is all, soft, and they twist around Jack’s forefinger just right.

Their laughter peters out, and have Sam’s eyes always been this… big and kind of… pretty?

Sam blinks and his smile is sort of soft and tugs up at the left more than the right, lips bitten pink and chapped just off center where his tongue pokes out when he’s concentrating on the bench. He’ll probably smother them later in that expensive honey-smelling lip balm that he pretends he doesn’t have in his bedside drawer, in the left side of his travel duffel, and two of in his car. 

Jack wonders if it would taste as nice if he licked it from Sam’s lips.

Which. Okay. That’s. That’s a thought he’s had before but never with Sam so close. Never with Sam’s thumb brushing over Jack’s hip, skin to skin where he’s slipped it under Jack’s jacket and shirt. 

“I’m gonna miss you. Is that weird? I’ll be, like, a walk away, but…”

“Yeah,” Jack says, has to cough, clear the thickness in his throat. “Yeah, me, too.”

Sam leans in and Jack closes his eyes, swallows hard, as Sam rests his forehead against Jack’s, their noses rubbing against each other. They breathe like this for four breaths—Jack counts, because his heart is jack-rabbiting like it’s going to jump out of his chest—and then Sam pulls back, tugs at where he’s somehow got their hands tangled up.

“C’mon, Jack. Let’s go to bed.”

Jack nods mutely, and his skin feels aflame from where they were touching. It feels like it’s burning a path from the ends of his hair down to the tips of his fingers where they’re curled around Sam’s. He shakes his head a little, feet following after Sam’s as he turns the hall light off, leaving them in darkness apart from what moonlight is coming in from the windows. Sam doesn’t hesitate a step, though. He’s lived with Jack for long enough to find his way. He doesn’t let go of Jack’s hand as they make their way upstairs, bypassing the spare room that was once Sam’s and heading straight for the master. Jack must pause a little, drag on Sam’s hand, but Sam just keeps moving forward. 

“Took the sheets off yesterday, remember? And I know you wouldn’t have put fresh ones on. Your bed’s huge, Eichs, and I’m not sleeping on the sofa.”

He’s right, Jack hadn’t gotten around to it, and yeah, they played hard tonight, they both deserve a good night's rest. Jack’s bed is a king, after all. He’s been known to lose bed partners in there himself. Has been told that he’s impossible to snuggle with because he always ends up shifted to the edge of the bed, damn near falling off.

Sam lets his hand go once he’s got the light in the ensuite on, dragging them both inside and grabbing a spare toothbrush from where Jack has a few in the second drawer. It should be weird that Sam knows that but he’s gone shopping with Jack. Knows that Jack buys the brand he likes in bulk when they’re on special. Something he picked up from his mom when he was growing up. They brush their teeth side by side, and Jack keeps sneaking looks at Sam and smiling when he catches Sam doing the same. It makes his chest do that aching thing again, and he didn't have artichokes tonight so it’s probably just gas or something from all the beer. It goes away though, when Sam’s hand slips back in Jack’s after they spit and wash their faces. 

He leads Jack back into the bedroom, shoving Jack toward the other side of the bed. They pull back the covers and then Sam’s dragging his shirt off up and over his head and. Wow. Yeah, Sam’s got that summer glow thing still happening even though they’ve been hidden away on the ice for a while now. It’s… it’s a nice look that Jack only drags his eyes away from once Sam’s hands are on his belt buckle, sliding the leather out. 

Jesus.

Jack takes his jacket off, throwing it on the chair in the corner, starts unbuttoning his shirt himself, the cuffs first then his chest. It’s hard, though, like his fingers are too big or the buttons too small—he just can’t the last three to budge. 

“Can’t even undress yourself without me,” Sam whispers but he’s so close to Jack, right there, an arm’s length away—and when did he even _move_ —batting away Jack’s hands. 

Jack’s eyes focus on Sam’s mouth where his tongue is poking out, slipping from side to side over that nearly permanent chapped mark that is getting shinier with every pass. He wonders just how likely it would be for Sam to notice that Jack is chubbing up. It’s not exactly bright in the room, just the bedside lamp that Sam turned on, and Jack is wearing his favorite dark suit, so. Hopefully no.

“There,” Sam says with a lopsided grin, patting at Jack’s undershirt. “All done.”

His hand is still resting there, feeling like a hot brand to Jack’s skin as Jack can’t drag his eyes away from Sam’s lips. From how lush and wet they now are.

Fuck, he is _way_ too drunk for this. 

“Thanks, bud.” He shifts away from Sam’s touch. Feels like his face is aflame with how hot it is as he slips his shirt off, then his shoes, pants, and socks. He can make out Sam moving about behind him as he folds everything up. Something he never usually does, but tonight seems to have shifted onto some wierd axis, and Jack isn’t sure why. At least gives him time to actively avoid thinking about the why, anyhow. 

By the time he turns around, Sam’s already lying in bed on his side, back to the middle, which is… it’s just fine. There’s still plenty of room for Jack. It’s not like he _wants_ to cuddle up to Sam. That’s not a thing buddies do. Not a thing they’ve ever done in this bed before. Maybe a few times on the sofa but that’s just good napping. Not anything else that Jack’s stupid tired, drunk—and possibly horny—mind had maybe thought about in the five steps from the chair back to the bed.

He gets in and faces away from Sam, turning out the light once he does.

It’s quiet apart from their breathing and Jack is so tired he barely makes out Sam’s whispered, “love you” or “thank you,” falling asleep before he can figure out exactly which one it was. 

:::

If he wakes up alone the next morning it’s not odd. It’s not unexpected. It’s far too common occurrence in the last… well longer than Jack cares to remember. They’re hockey players and they both have shit to do this morning before they get ready to fly out.

Still, there’s a new sensation in the pit of his stomach, a smile tugging at his lips when he makes it downstairs and finds a familiar bag from Carriages with his favourite sticky bun inside on the counter. Coffee still steaming in its cup.

:::

They lose in Tampa by one. Then in Florida in overtime. They put up a hard fight in Nashville, but they don't even pick up a point.

It’s when they finally get home and lose to the Leafs—the goddamn fucking _Leafs_ —in overtime in their _own barn_ that Jack starts wondering what he’s done different. What he might have done wrong.

Then Philly come in and almost completely shut them down, six to two, and Jack isn’t sure if he wants to break every stick the club owns, or drown his sorrows in the bottom of every bottle at their favorite bar.

They end up at Bogo’s house because it’s big and his wife said they could. Baby Hunter likes music and Mila sleeps through anything, so it won’t bother the kids if they get a bit loud. Even so, Bianca relegates them to the basement, which is pretty much Bogo’s man cave, anyway. They drink and they start a few rounds of cards because Bogo’s charity night is coming up so getting in a few practice rounds won’t hurt. As the night waxes into the next morning, Jack finds himself too hot, escaping outside. It’s not particularly cold—well, it's definitely below freezing—but Jack’s halfway through this bottle of whiskey. He’s not feeling all that much.

He sits out on the deck, blanket he’d snagged off the sofa inside over his legs as he pushes his beanie down over his ears, rubs at the cold red tip of his nose with the back of his glove. He’s managed to take one more good chug when he hears the door open. Skinny’s voice calls out louder than it should no matter the distance between this house and Bogo’s neighbours. It’s at least a quarter to two in the morning. Definitely not a time to shout.

“I’m fucking over here Skinny, Jeff. Jeff, _shut up_ ,” Jack whisper shouts as Jeff appears, his face nearly lost under the fluffy hooded jacket he’s thrown on. Definitely not the one he arrived in, so he must have taken Bianca’s, Jack guesses, from the bright red color and fake fur ruff. 

“Shh, Eichs, don’t you know what time it is?” Jeff shushes him with a laugh as he lifts up Jack’s blanket, squeezes himself in beside Jack even though this seat is probably only meant for one.

“This is cozy,” Jeff comments as he tucks them both back in, pushing the hood of his jacket up a few times before he gives up when it keeps falling back down. 

Jack snickers but doesn’t help. It’s probably warmer in there for Jeff’s face anyhow. He unscrews his bottle and takes a swig, the liquor not even burning on the way down. He’s probably had enough, but fuck it. Gotta dull the pain somehow.

“Sharing is caring, Jack,” Skinny says, making grabby hands at Jack’s bottle. Jack rolls his eyes but gives it over.

Skinny takes the thing, holding it up to where the meager light is shining out from inside and barks out a laugh.

“Jack for Jack, huh? Did you bring this yourself because that’s double the chirp factor if you did, bud.”

“I like what I like—you don’t _have_ to drink it.” Jack makes grabby hands back at the bottle, but Jeff holds it just out of reach. 

He takes a swig anyway, then hands the bottle back to Jack, who tries hard not to laugh as Jeff chokes a little. 

“Asshole,” Jeff eventually spits out, while Jack tips more whiskey down his throat, not being affected at all.

They sit there for a while, Jack drinking another few inches before Jeff steals the bottle, puts it on the floor. 

“Why are you even sitting out here by yourself, Eichs? Bogo said it’s not like you. Even Sam said you’ve been quiet at home.”

_Home,_ Jack snorts. Home isn't really feeling like that without Sam down the hall. 

_”Oh,_ ” Jeff says, drags out the word. “This is about Samson, right.” He nods.

And _what?_

“Just, that thing no one talks about? How weird you are with Sam and he is with you. Which is a thing I am not supposed to talk about.” Jeff looks both confused and sad. Which explains a lot.

“I’m not. I’m not _weird_ with Sam! I’m just. We’re fine. It’s fine.” Jack nods, and he’s glad for the near non-existent light, because his cheeks and neck feel aflame. 

“Well, what is it, then? Because there’s been something. I’m not saying you should talk to me, but you could talk to me because, well, I’m here.” Jeff waves his hand out in front of him, as if he’s pointing to a crowd of people who aren’t there.

Jack closes his eyes and drags his hand down his face. His ears are getting fucking cold, but maybe, maybe just talking to Jeff would be okay. He’ll tell Jack how dumb he’s being and it’ll be fine. It’ll help.

“It’s, like, it’s like my routine, yeah? I don’t like to change much on game day and it was working so well, _so well,_ then.” Jack hiccups, which, great. “I can get my own dinner? It’s not hard, I can totally do it, and I’ve done it before.”

He holds his breath and drinks a far larger slug of whiskey than he should, but—hiccups. “I keep making eggs for two, and then I feel bad when I throw them out.” 

The whiskey bottle is nearly empty, but still his hiccups remain. “Maybe, maybe it’s just the apples, you know? But… Jeff, Skinny?” Jack sighs, sliding down farther on the chair, Jeff leaning even more awkwardly into Jack’s side.

“I keep sleeping weird. I wake up on the wrong side, and it still smells like Sam, and—and his shirt was under the pillow which maybe is why.” He sighs, and Jeff is being very quiet so Jack looks up, and Jeff is just _staring_ at him.

“His shirt was in your bed under your pillow,” Jeff repeats, blinking twice.

“I mean, yeah.” Jack shrugs. “He gets hot when he sleeps, and I always have too many blankets on my bed, so I guess he stripped off?”

“Stripped? Bed? Oh… I am _not._ Give me that.” Jeff steals the bottle away from Jack which makes him pout.

“Hey, Eichs!” Sam calls out, all glowing and halo-like from where he’s standing with the glass door opened just enough around him. “Is Skinny out here with you?”

“Yup, out here with Skinny, the Skinster, the Skinny man.”

Sam laughs and walks out toward them both, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Fuck, it is _cold_ out here. You idiots should be inside.”

“Should be inside with you,” Jack grumbles, and Jeff laughs but not a real one, just this wheeze.

“You were and you can be. I think it’s time we got home, Jack.”

Home. Jack had a home once. A home with his Sam. But Sam doesn’t live there anymore. It’s sort of sad and makes Jack’s chest ache and his head _hurt_ to think about. He shakes his head side to side and _whoa,_ he is way drunker than he thought. “It’s not the same, Sammy, not without you there.” 

Sam sighs, all fond. Or maybe Jack just thinks it sounds like that. “It’s okay, pal, we can have sleepovers.”

“I have no idea what is going on, and I really think I shouldn’t have asked,” Jeff whispers but Jack still hears.

“I know, bud, but you did ask,” Jack says with a nod, pats at Jeff’s thigh before he stumbles to his feet. “Take me to bed, Samson.”

Jeff makes a pained sound, but Jack’s left him with _maybe_ an inch of whiskey. He’ll be fine. 

:::

They stumble into the house—well, Jack stumbles, Sam sort of guides—once they’ve made quick goodbyes and head out, Sam driving. They end up in Sam’s old bed because Sam dumps him there, and Jack basically tugs him down and throws his arm and leg over Sam, pinning him to the bed. Sam laughs and tries to escape, saying something to Jack about their clothes and blankets, and Jack grudgingly gets up and tries to strip off, but he fails so bad that Sam helps. He bites his lip not to say anything about how hot Sam’s body is—and he isn’t sure if he just means temperature-wise. How good it feels to have Sam here. Here with him.

Though maybe he _does_ say that because Sam smiles at him once they're back in bed—and Jack has no idea when he went from sitting up to lying down—but whatever. Sam doesn’t seem to mind. He curls up around Jack instead, and the last thing Jack remembers is Sam’s lips maybe pressing against his bare shoulder. 

:::

Jack wakes up slowly the next morning. Head sort of pounding, and he’s overly hot. He opens his eyes a crack, and... right. Yeah. Sam. 

Jack’s chest is doing that thing again, that tightness, but it doesn’t so much hurt it as it sort of fills him up. It feels _good_ and shit. 

Shit. 

When exactly did he fall in love with Sam? 

It’s too early to be having realizations like this, and his head is really sore, so he closes his eyes and hopes sleep will help sort both issues out for later.

:::

When he wakes again it’s definitely been a few hours more, but it’s still before his alarm. It’s hard not to look at Sam, though. His wavy blond hair is curled over his face, dark lashes feathered over his cheekbones. His bottom lip quivers as he breathes in and out, and Jack’s fingers tingle with a need to touch. Follow the Cupid’s bow shape with his tongue. 

Jack shudders, shifts back a little, but it doesn’t matter, Sam’s already waking up. His eyes open with slow blinks as a soft smile spreads across his face. He headbutts Jack all gentle on his shoulder with a husky good morning.

Jack can’t help but smile back, cheeks flushing with heat because this feels _right._ Jack thinks he should say something, but then Sam rubs his face on Jack’s arm before turning and rolling out of bed to head for the bathroom. In just his shorts. 

Which….

Jack looks under the covers and yeah, he’s just in boxers, too. 

This is… fuck. _Fuck._

Jack grabs a pillow and smashes it against his face because this is the _worst_ and _best_ thing to happen to him. Maybe more worse considering the pillow Sam slept on is the same one Jack’s breathing in now. 

He’s being ridiculous. He’s not in some sort of romantic comedy. This is not _The Notebook_ with some stupid great love, or _Thirteen Going on Thirty,_ falling for your best friend.

He just. He needs to get up and get dressed and… maybe it’s early enough that no one will recognize him at Carriage’s. It’d be weird to just wait here for Sam to come out. 

:::

He’s smiling when he walks back in the door, familiar paper bag in hand, but it’s quiet. Sort of _too_ quiet, and there’s no answer when he calls out to Sam. He goes upstairs and the bed is made, which makes him sad, so he finds his phone in the pocket of his pants and sees he has a text from Jeff amongst a few others.

He ignores them all because Sam’s “went back to mine. You’re a good bed partner. 10/10 would do again” is right there at the top. 

Jack sits on the bed. He’s a little mopey that Sam’s not there, but he catches a grin on his face once he’s been staring at the screen too long and it turns black. He’s just made his way downstairs after taking a proper shower and getting into fresh sweats when there’s a knock at his door. Jack practically jogs to answer, because there’s a chance that it’s Sam. He doesn’t look—a thing he usually does, considering who he is and where he lives—but his mind is running on a chorus of “it could be Sam, it could be Sam” as he pulls the door open. 

“Decided you needed more snuggle time, did you?” 

“I mean I didn’t know it was on offer, but sure,” Jeff answers, and oh. Right. Other people do know where Jack lives.

“Gonna let me in?”

:::

They end up sitting at the counter, Jack picking at his sticky bun while Jeff takes Sam’s muffin top apart. He’d feel bad about letting Jeff eat Sam’s treat, but then he’d have to admit _why_ he bought it. 

He’s not paying all that much attention, so he jumps a little when Jeff finally speaks.

“You want to talk more about what we were discussing last night?”

Jeff is looking at him with the straightest of faces. His brown eyes are at least friendly looking. It’s just... last night… was. It’s not that Jack doesn’t remember because he _was_ there. It’s just a little. Hazy. 

He does remember being outside with Jeff and something about Jack’s routine. Or something about food and sleep. Oh. _Oh._

Jack can pretend he has no idea what Jeff is talking about—he sips at his coffee and looks down at his food. “You mean the PK or the fact I just can't get a fucking shot right?” he asks, tone tinged with self depreciation. 

“Well, that and our D is kind of a mess with Hunwick out, or I don't know, maybe how you’re in love with Samson?”

Jack pauses for a microsecond as his heart pretty much stops. Maybe the world stops because this is. No one else is supposed to know. _Jack_ wasn’t even in the know until recently. 

So he does the next best thing.

He laughs.

“Oh, bud, wow, um, no. That’s not. Sam and me? I mean—”

Jeff just tilts his head a little, stares at Jack all serious. “Jack, did he or did he not spend the night here?”

Jacks face goes red. 

“In your bed?”

Jack puts his head down on the table.

There’s silence.

Jack wishes for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him down. 

“Am I eating a morning-after muffin right now?” Jeff asks, and Jack groans, bangs his head on the table again.

“Oh, wow. That’s... I actually _liked_ these Cloud things that one time Samson took me out there,” Jeff whines.

Jack lifts his head up enough to look at Jeff with raised brows. “He took you to Carriage’s?”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “With Dahls, too. Showing us around, Jack. Not post-sleepover sweets or whatever it is this was that I was previously enjoying,” Jeff answers, face scrunched up as he pushes the ripped-open packaging toward the middle of the bench. “So you finally figured out you have a thing for our Reino did you?” 

Jack groans. “It’s not a thing. Well. It’s sort of a thing, I mean. It’s dinner, really.”

Jeff says nothing, so Jack figures he should go on. “Like, I thought, it’s stupid, yeah? But I thought we had that hot streak when he was living here, my routine was all the same and then he moves out and I have to get my own dinner and we lose.”

He chances a look over at Jeff, who is now hiding his mouth and most of his face because he’s pulled at the strings of his hoodie until it’s nearly closed up. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, and his cheeks are pink. There’s an almost-strained wheezing sound coming from inside the Sabres-blue fabric. 

“Don’t fucking laugh, you asshole. I _know_ it’s stupid but it’s not exactly like I’ve fallen for a teammate or anything before, and he lived here for ages. How didn’t I know before? I could have...” Jack shrugs, looking at the ceiling like it’ll give him some answers.

“Stopped it?” Jeff answers for him.

“I don’t… yeah, yeah maybe.”

Jeff sips at the coffee that was for Sam and looks thoughtful. 

Jack picks at another layer of sticky bun. One with more nuts. Like himself, he guesses—maybe he _is_ his current breakfast food of choice. 

“You’re a smart guy, Eichs. You know it's nothing to do with dinner or routine or whatever that crazy shit is you get up to.”

Jack snorts. “I’ve seen the way you tape your stick, Skinny. And how you always get the Gatorade three back in the fridge and never from the front,”

Jeff raises his hands in supplication. “Fair point. Just, maybe this isn’t something that you need to worry over, Jack. You should talk to Samson.”

“I _know_ that,” Jack whines. “It’s just…” He shrugs.

“A lot?” Jeff adds, picking at the icing on the Cloud he’d pushed away before.

Jack nods. Talking to Sam about how he has feelings that are more than just the occasional linemate, ex-roommates, sometimes sleepover-buddies friendship. That sounds like something easy enough. Not.

“You never know,” Jeff says, pushing a huge chunk of muffin into his mouth. “At the least we might just win a game.”

Jack throws the last of his bun at Jeff, who ducks in time for it to land, sticky side down on the floor.

That’d be about right.

:::

He doesn’t talk to Sam, though he thinks about it because Sam comes over with dinner later that night. Jack doesn’t plan on them sleeping together but they _do_ fall asleep on the sofa, and Jack wakes up just as Sam is brushing his hair from his forehead, his short nails scratching at Jack’s scalp. Jack can’t help but lean into the touch. 

“Gonna head home. You should get up to bed.”

“You should stay,” Jack says through a yawn, not wanting to lose Sam yet. “It’s late.”

“I live four houses away, Jack. It’s not that far to travel,” Sam says softly in the quiet of the night. Only the blue screen of the television lights the room. Sam must have been halfway through turning it off.

“Yeah, but my bed’s just like four steps away.” Jack rubs at his eyes as he sits up. Sam's hand slides from the top of Jack’s head to his shoulder, his fingertips pressing in almost soothingly.

“You really want me to stay, huh?” 

Jack blinks and looks up, and Sam is smiling at him, his lashes dusting his cheeks as he blinks slowly. Looks just as tired as Jack feels. Jack’s pretty sure he can get Sam to stay purely by how sleepy Sam seems.

“C’mon. I’ll even let you have my side of the bed.” Jack gets up, takes Sam’s hand in his, swinging it a little. 

It should be weird. They don’t hold hands. Don’t sleep together. Yet… Jack _wants._

“Let me? I’m doing you the favor here, bud. I’ll take whatever side I want.”

Jack doesn’t say anything in return, just leads them up the stairs after Sam switches the TV off. Neither of them say anything about passing the spare rooms. The quiet extends as they prepare for bed—Sam’s toothbrush is still beside Jack’s in the little cup—and then they’re in bed and it's peaceful. Nice. 

They’re not lying close, yet they’re facing each other, which is different this time. Feels like something more.

Jack lets his hand rest between them on the mattress. Falls asleep with a smile on his face after Sam reaches out with his own to cover up Jack’s.

:::

Jack still hasn’t said anything right up until they play the Kings at home. Doesn’t say anything even when Sam comes by with their pregame dinner and travels in with Jack. Celebrates with the team after and drives them both to Jack’s when Jack decides he’s had enough. 

Sam spends the night, and Jack wakes up with his head on Sam’s chest and still he can’t find the words to ask Sam for what he wants.

They’re winning and Sam’s here and maybe it’s enough.

They fly out to Washington and lose in a shootout in a game they fought tooth and nail for, which is always tough.

They lose when they’re away, and then they lose at home, and Jack can’t find the words to ask Sam to stay. Each loss becomes harder to take because of the “what if?” Can only avoid Skinny’s eyes when he shoots looks between Jack and Sam. Can barely take Sam’s arm around his shoulder, the “we’ll be better next time” the only acknowledgment he can parse. 

:::

They land late after losing to the Caps, and Jack honestly doesn’t want to even think about sharing his bed with anyone. Let alone someone that could possibly help their chances at winning when they play the Ducks later that day. 

He slips out to his car as soon as he’s able, lapels on his jacket pulled high because it’s not cold enough to be snowing out but it’s still fucking cold. He’s just unlocking his door when he hears a voice call out.

“Hey, asshole, did you forget you’re my ride?” Sam sings out, sounding out of breath and a little pissed off.

Fuck. Shit. He is and he did and well. Maybe this could work out.

“Sorry,” Jack says, turns and waits for Sam to catch up.

Sam’s jogging over to the car, giving Jack the finger once he gets close. He looks soft even with the harsh light from above. Warm and snuggly with his beanie pulled down low, thick mustard scarf wrapped double around his neck. 

Jack wants to tug on the ends. Pull him close.

“C’mon, man, let’s get the heating on already.” 

He pushes his hands deeper into his pockets. Squeezes his fist around his keys. 

Jack gets in the car after Sam, pumps the heating up on all settings as soon as he starts the car.

“I’m hungry. I know I shouldn’t be because of the time and all but… do you still have those pizza roll things in the freezer?” Sam asks as Jack turns out of the lot. The street’s vacant of anyone at this hour, making it feel a little post-apocalyptic even though he can see someone’s—probably Pommer or Sheary—lights behind him. 

“Yeah, probably. You wanna come over, then?” Jack asks, his eyes focused on the road, not on where Sam is holding his hands in front of the vents, rubbing them fast.

“You actually gonna ask this time not drag me over like some sort of Neanderthal?” 

Jack is glad for the cover of darkness for the blush he _knows_ fires up immediately on his cheeks.

“Been reading, have you,” is all he can come up with in return. It’s weak, but it’s better than the “I’d keep you in my bed always if that’s what you want” that he thought of first.

“Not complaining, Eichs. Not complaining. As long as you feed me first.”

:::

He does have the pizza rolls in the freezer, and they shoot the shit in the kitchen, consuming a couple of Gatorades and then water while they wait. It’s not that Jack doesn’t want to talk to Sam about… the liking him thing. It’s just… probably not the greatest idea to have this conversation at this hour of night. Or morning. 

It gets harder though, not to say anything, as they move around the kitchen in sync, Jack getting plates while Sam gets napkins and cutlery because he likes to cut the rolls open rather than burn his tongue on the lava inside. 

Sam’s about to set everything down on the bench when Jack stops him. Knowing if he’s going to say anything, it’s going to be now but he can’t be sitting right beside Sam when he does.

“The dining table? Really? I just wanna eat and maybe watch some highlights, Jack,” Sam whines, looking thoroughly put upon.

Jack thinks about caving, but then Sam smiles and god, Jack just wants to _kiss_ him and yeah. 

He pushes past Sam with the tray loaded with three pizza rolls each. 

“ _Fine._ ” Sam elongates the word but follows, sitting across from Jack with a cheesy grin. “We’ll be proper or whatever it is you want, Mr. Eichel.”

“Eat your fucking rolls,” Jack mumbles, taking his own seat and ignoring Sam’s laughter and the foot that taps his ankle under the table. 

:::

Sam’s leaning back in his chair, patting at his stomach when Jack stops and starts himself from beginning this conversation for the third time since he finished eating. He only managed to eat one cheesy snack. Sam, however, had five.

“I kind of like living so close. It’s good to know when there’s nothing to eat at my place, there probably will be at yours.” Sam grins wide like the Cheshire Cat, and with his hair product-free and all messed up from wearing his beanie earlier. He kind of looks like that, too. 

“You’re always welcome here,” Jack says because it’s true. Even if Sam doesn’t realize how much Jack would like him back here more often. 

“I know.” Sam looks at Jack with this fond stare and fuck it. He has to say something. He needs to know.

“What do you think are chances are with the Ducks?” Sam asks, turning his glass around in the water mark Jack should probably care about but can’t.

He clears his throat. “Better if you spend the night,” he jokes but not completely. The words just sort of fall out.

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, because where I sleep will affect how the pucks bounce.”

“It could.” Jack shrugs. “Did last time you slept here.”

Sam frowns like he’s thinking about it, and has Jack’s heart always beat so fast? He taps his fingers on his thighs. Nerves completely shot.

“Arizona, right? I stayed at home before we flew out for the Caps, but… what’s that got to do with anything?” He looks utterly confused.

“And we lost. You stayed here before we won against Arizona and before that the Kings and we came away with that win in OT. You stayed at your place before we played the Leafs and—” Jack stops himself because he’s sounding ridiculous to even his own ears. He really should have made a plan for how he was going to play this out. His coach from BU would be appalled.

Well, about his lack of forward planning being possibly the least on this list of things that Jack is now doing. 

Sam is looking at Jack with incredulous eyes. “We lost. Yeah. But, Jack… You can't seriously think that we won all of those games because I _slept_ here. What about last season? What about tonight? You think we’ll win against the Ducks if I stay?”

Jack licks at his lips for a moment. This is so bad. He’s screwed this up before he can even make his point. “Well, maybe it's not that but… maybe I started out thinking it was that and then we slept in my bed. Together,” Jack finishes, folding his hands in his lap. 

“So you think us sleeping in the same bed is a thing?” Sam’s voice has gone up an octave, his cheeks are pinking up. Jack can’t tell if its because he’s angry or embarrassed. He isn’t sure which he’d prefer.

Sam shakes his head. “Jesus, Jack, you’re sounding like Crosby-levels of—”

“No, it’s. Just give me a minute, okay. Let me say the rest of this because I feel like an idiot enough without you pointing out even more of my flaws.”

Sam’s face softens. “You’re not. You’re not flawed, Jack. You aren’t perfect by a long shot, but—”

Jack just glares at him, arms crossed, which is probably not conducive to a love—like a lot?—declaration, but it gets Sam to shut up.

Sam mimes zipping his lips, mimics Jack’s pose. 

Jack closes his eyes, takes a breath in, and lets it out slowly. It’s fine. Sam will still be his friend after this. At the very least they’ll still be team.

For another two years.

Unless Sam asks for a trade. Which he could do. In theory.

When he does open his eyes again, he looks down at the table between them. Just in case Sam’s face does something Jack won’t be able to bear to see. 

He licks his lips and starts again. “I thought of all those things. You bringing dinner, us sharing the same house, the same bed were all positives and whatever because I didn’t fully realize what having you here, having you with me all the time meant. I guess it took stupid coincidences to make me see what’s probably been there for a while. For a long time.”

He raises his head then, because Jack is many things, but he’s never been a coward. Never been as afraid of saying what he’s about to say as he is right now. The draft? That first game he ever played at BU? Waiting on the bench for his line to get called in the gold medal game at World Juniors? Nothing in his life has made him feel as nervous as he does right now. But Jeff is right. He has to know. 

“I kind of like you a lot, Samson. I think I play better when I have you around. I think I _am_ better when you’re with me. I think—no, I’d _like_ —to give us a shot,” he finishes, and Sam is just looking at him with those stupid big grayish hazel eyes and his dirty blond hair all soft, falling over his stupid little ears, and God. Jack is so _gone_ for Sam, and he hasn’t got a clue what he’s going to do if Sam says no.

“I bought a house, Jack.”

Are not exactly the words Jack thought Sam would say in return. Jack can feel his face slipping downward. Bites the inside of his lip.

“I bought a _fucking house,_ Jack,” he says again, and Jack nods because he knows.

“You. I live four houses down from you. I bought a fucking house...” Sam peters off with a huff, standing up, interlacing his hands behind his head as he turns his back to Jack.

Jack’s stomach plummets. Okay. This. This wasn’t completely unexpected but Jack still hasn’t really got a clue what Sam means at all.

“I can move,” Jack says running a hand over his short curls. His voice sounds thick to his own ears. “If it makes it easier for you, I’ll go.”

Sam laughs and it’s not his usual sound. This is almost hysterical. 

He turns and he’s smiling so big and wide as he walks around to Jack’s side of the table, tugs at the seat until Jack turns, pulled almost half out. 

“I bought a house four doors down from you because I didn’t want to be away from you either, you goof,” Sam says, his hands on Jack’s shoulders as he leans down close. He smells like citrus and clean things. Things Jack has grown to associate with being home, with being in this house with Sam. 

“I bought that house because I figured I’d lived with you long enough and that you’d never actually shown any sign that you liked me more than just buddies. When I had the money and the stability it was best if I moved out. Let you get on with your life and your eight years here and a partner and probably a dog and kids. The works.”

Jack swallows hard, feels something warm building in his chest, tendrils working their way along his limbs from his heart. 

Sam’s hands shift warm up over Jack’s skin, fingertips sliding into Jack’s hair as his thumbs brush back and forth over Jack’s cheeks. 

“I bought a house because it was breaking my heart pretending this was enough. That playing house with you was okay until I got traded or sent back down.”

“They’re not gonna trade you,” Jack says because he _always_ says that to Sam when he starts that line of thought.

Sam huffs and smiles wider. “I know. I know. It’s just. Jack, I bought a house.”

“So you could be close. Even though you thought I didn’t love you back,” Jack says, a grin of his own tugging at the left corner of his lips. Warmth filling his bones.

“No one said anything about _love,_ Eichs,” Sam teases, cheeks turning an even redder shade of blush, but yeah. It’s a word Jack’s been tossing about. Ignoring a little, because it would mean so much more if this talk didn’t go well.

“You bought a house,” Jack whispers, his hands coming up to rest on Sam’s hips as Sam leans in and in until he’s just a hair's breadth away. 

“I bought a house.” 

Maybe Jack surges up or maybe Sam bends in close, but they’re kissing and it’s a bit awkward with the angle but it doesn’t matter. They’ll work it out.

:::

They win against Anaheim, getting Ullmark the shut out.

They lose again in St Louis and come home to see an OT that they can't find the back of the net for, either. 

One of those nights they spend curled up at Jack’s. The other, testing the bed springs in Sam’s cozy queen size. 

Sometimes it’s dinner at Jack’s, and sometimes Jack picks up Sam’s favorites and they eat at Sam’s instead. There’s game-day naps on Jack’s sofa because it’s old and worn in and nights where sleep is the _last_ thing on either of their minds as they roll around on Sam’s bed. There’s wins and losses at home and on the road and more trips to Carriage’s than either of them should have, but like any good hockey player, they grow. Adapt. Push through the hard times and celebrate the good. 

And if there’s anything Jack’s learned from all of this, he’s always going to have hockey, always going to have Sam. And apples? Well, apples are apples. He’ll take the good with the bad. 

 

THE END


End file.
